This is a story about a cat, atonement, loss, and grief. Like all good stories though, it doesn't start out that way. It begins with a story about two friends who loved each other dearly and in that love decided it was a good idea to get married. It turned out they were wrong, and in their error became quite dysfunctional and hurtful to themselves, each other and the world. In their lost ways, they became people who would go to the animal shelter and bring home cats and dogs they couldn't care for because they were in pain and couldn't bear to see the pain of another creature. In the end, they divorced, took the cats they could manage and in an act of desperation that horrified them both returned three of the cats they had adopted to the very shelter from which they had adopted them.
The painful end.
But not so much. The male in that story went on to provide loving, indulgent, and secure homes for some dear feline companions until he passed away. The female made a promise to never, ever allow anything remotely close to that circumstance in her life again. And so went many years without having a pet despite her sincere affection for animals. The two reconnected as years passed and friendship was still there. The female, who you may have guessed by now was me, loved teasing her dear friend about how he sacrificed sweaters as blankets for his dear cat friends. And he would say "ah, it's fine! It came from Goodwill you know!". But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Somewhere in between all that healing I was sitting in my sweet little apartment in Ballard, you know, the one that absolutely allowed no pets. I had ended up living in Seattle from West Virginia and that dear ones is a story that requires a good Manhattan and much more space than a blog allows. It was hot and I was on the top floor, one of the hottest Julys on record. I had my windows open for relief when I thought I smelled cigarette smoke, since we were in a no-smoke building I looked out my window down to the courtyard of our building. No smoke, no people in sight anywhere. But, there was a cat. So of course I spoke to it. I always speak to cats, it might be someone I know. She spoke back in a pitiful mew and kept looking up at me. Yes, of course I went down to visit with her. How did I know it was a girl? Because as soon as I approached her I saw that she was very close to giving birth.
The rest of the story is not very surprising or mysterious. I took her in, risking my placement at my apartment. It was just until the kittens came and then they'd go. I was on a mission. She had come to me, I was sure, as a means of atonement for awful deed I had participated in. I was going to do right by Cleo and Bailey and Tuck. I partnered with a local agency to become the mama's foster home until the kittens were born. Through the agency and my own efforts three kittens were adopted out to excellent, loving homes. Zoe, a Siamese, Nick a tuxedo, and Simon a yellow tabby. Mama, a calico manx with only fuzz for a tail was young and clearly had many suitors! That left one little puny guy. He had come last, twelve hours later, I would say later in affectionate jest that he lost oxygen during that time to explain some of his more curious behaviors. Yes, the little white kitten with a poofy pom-pom tail stayed with me as did Mama, who I named Peachy. Mousey, who got his name because as a tiny kitten he looked exactly like the little white cartoon mouse in Loony Tunes whose ears were bigger than his body. He later revealed that he too was part Siamese as his peach colored points came in. It was a classic bait and switch meant to be, I would never have kept him if I had known he was part Siamese, but he was mine now and that meant for better or worse.
It was mostly with Mousey for better. He, to date, is my longest relationship since I moved to Seattle. Seventeen and a half years. He was with me through every pivotal life transition that occurred. A marriage, a move, two babies coming home, another divorce, a move, a blending of a new family, another move...he was boss. He moved along mostly seamlessly through all the days of my life. Peachy was not so flexible. When my firstborn came home some weird hormonal collision occurred between the two of us. We couldn't stand each other and she certainly couldn't stand The Boy. She was relocated quickly by a family friend to a new home.
Mousey was beautiful, a large cream colored Siamese with blue eyes and apricot colored points. He always caught the eye. I never let him outside because I was afraid he'd get scooped up and taken by someone. Like most Manx he was very social, his poofy tail would twitch in greeting and he was more doglike in wanting to be where we were, close by. He was not a good cat for a cat owner who didn't care for dogs, but I was atoning so we learned to live with each other. He had more oral hang-ups than I'd ever known possible in a cat. Chiefly, licking the bathtub (and then laying down in it) and licking plastic bags so loudly and devotedly that the sound of it would wake me up in the middle of the night. I can tell you for sure that it will be years before I lay a plastic bag down on the floor where a cat could get to it.
Last November, our old dear clown took a nose dive and we prepared to say good-bye. But our resilient fellow bounced back and we celebrated the extra time knowing it would be short lived. But as you know dear ones, that knowledge does not prepare you for the time when loss is imminent. Yesterday, at four o'clock in the afternoon, on our bathroom floor our sweet old man took two last deep breathes and went on to his next gig. It was fast and unexpected. The picture I used for the article was taken just four days ago, he was alert and happy. Yesterday I held him like a baby up to the computer screen so that The Girl could say her good-byes via Skype. He was weak and limp, a shell of my fellow. He opened his eyes when he heard her voice, I think he was waiting to hear from her because he had started having seizures that morning. I whispered to him over and over that he could go, that it was okay now. But he needed to see The Girl with whom he had developed a special bond. I laid him back down in the floor and as I talked with my daughter and we laughed I heard those two last labored breathes and realized with gratitude and great relief that we were not going to the cold vet clinic later for euthanasia. Mousey died in the bathroom, which he loved, hearing the laughter of family and those who loved him most. I could not have planned a better passing for him.
Seventeen years of your presence in my life dear friend, my children have not known a life without you in it. I know our grief will subside in the days to come, but right now that seems not possible. Thank you sweet soul for all you gave us, for allowing me stop beating myself up for a thing that I did in a toxic state of living, for being your sweet, goofy, neurotic self. I have never known the joy and the pain of caring for and living with another creature from birth to death. It was wonderful and now excruciating. I remain in a grateful debt to you for all you allowed me to do and become, so much grace we gave one another. You will always, always be loved and absolutely never forgotten.
